Master, Master
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The Ero-Sennin
Shitposter no more
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Let's check in on the dudes in 1899. How are they doing, what are they up to after dealing with that weird monster.
Southeast of Echo Creek, deep in the Santa Ana Mountains, the great swarm of bats streaked across the night sky. They flew low beneath the mountain peaks, weaving through the trees that blanketed the slopes and valleys.
The swarm descended into a clearing where a single large tent stood, silent among the pines. The bats converged above it, condensing into a single churning mass. They twisted, merged, writhing into a vaguely human shape—until, at last, the form solidified.
A pale-faced, wild-haired man in a black suit now stood in their place. A red and gold vest gleamed beneath his open jacket, and a voluminous black bowtie sat at his throat. Behind him, a high-collared cape flared in the wind as he strode toward the tent's entrance.
Inside, the tent resembled the study of a seasoned explorer. A map of northern Mexico and southern California was spread across a round table at its center. Crates and shelves filled with books, scrolls, and instruments lined the walls. At the far end, a desk and chair faced away from the entrance.
Seated at the desk, cloaked in dark robes and hooded against the lantern light, was the man known only as Master. He set down his pen beside a half-written letter without turning around.
"You're here sooner than I expected, Count," he said. "I take it that something has occurred."
"Master," the Count replied, his voice low, uncertain. "I have found the boy. He reached Los Angeles ahead of us."
The Master grew still. "And you have not brought him to me because…?"
"I couldn't approach," the Count said, uneasily. "Those accursed carbon arc lamps—they made it impossible. So... I sent the homunculus after him."
A long silence.
"And…?" the Master asked.
The Count lowered his eyes. "The homunculus was defeated."
The Master bowed his head—not in anger, but in thought.
The Count winced, bracing for rebuke.
But the hooded man only chuckled, sounding almost relieved. "Hah... I can only admire that kind of determination. After everything, he still hunts us."
The Count exhaled, a breath he held only for dramatic effect. "I'm not surprised. After what we did to his home—and everyone he cared about…"
"Yes," the Master agreed quietly. "But how many before him have said the same? When faced with true hopelessness… absolute despair… even the strongest men lose their fire."
He turned his hood slightly, as though looking out into the dark. "We destroyed his home. His family. Left him with nothing but what he could carry. Left him to die."
His voice dropped, almost reverent.
"And yet… he endures."
The Master stood from his desk.
"Not only that… he carries on with hatred in his heart—enough to drive him to face us still, and defeat us."
He turned, his face hidden entirely in the black of his hood. "We have found him, Count. Our Dantès. Our Ahab—our relentless pursuer who will defy death and despair itself in the name of vengeance."
He extended a hand. "Go. Take Mr. Jackal with you and investigate. Return to me with the Hunter's disposition. Retrieve the homunculus if you are able to, I will decide what action to take next."
Count dropped to one knee, bowing his head low. "As you command, Master. If the Hunter attacks… what should I do?"
"Do not fight him without advantage. Weakened and alone he was a menace. If he has food, rest, and allies, he will be too dangerous to confront directly."
Count hesitated, skeptical—but dared not challenge the order. "As you wish. I shall collect Mr. Jackal immediately and make for the city."
"Report back within three days," the Master said. "If I hear nothing, I will assume you are lost."
"I understand. Fear not. I will complete my mission without fail."
With that, the Count's form dissolved—losing its shape, breaking into a cloud of shrieking bats that burst from the tent and vanished into the sky.
The Master watched until the last winged shadow disappeared.
Then he turned, sat, and picked up his fountain pen. He brought the nib to paper… but paused.
Eyes closed, he sighed.
"… It is a shame…"
Cutting across the night sky, winds howling under their wings, the bats that made up Count soared over the Southern California wilderness. The swarm drifted like a shadow across the moonlit land—until they spotted a lone camp, firelight flickering below.
With a shriek, they descended—merging mid-air, condensing into the tall, suited form of Count just as he touched ground.
The fire crackled, casting long shadows over a scene of carnage.
Nearly a dozen bodies lay strewn around the campsite—men and women both. Some had been shot. Some were stabbed. One man was strangled so violently blood streamed from nose, mouth, and ears. Several faces were no longer recognizable.
And in front of the blaze stood a single man.
His shirt—once white—was so soaked with blood it looked crimson at first glance. He turned as Count landed, revealing a youthful, sharp-featured face, framed by a messy shock of white hair matted with gore.
He grinned, wide and feral.
"Fangy!" He sang out. "How's my favorite Creature of the Night?"
Count's voice dropped to frost. "Address me as Count, Jackal. What are you doing out here?"
"Curing my boredom, isn't it obvious?" Jackal said cheerfully, kicking a corpse's head like a football. "They weren't much, but they put up just enough fight to make it fun."
He spread his blood-slicked arms wide. "And look! A feast, just for you! Aren't I considerate?"
Count sneered. "I despise dead meat. No matter how fresh the kill."
"Oh, don't knock it until you try it," Jackal chuckled, folding his hands behind his head.
"Blood must flow from a living heart," Count replied coldly. "I'll savor the last drops from a dying man, yes—but I will not suck blood from corpses like a vulture."
Jackal snorted. "But sucking it out like a leech is beautiful and elegant, I gather?"
He threw his hands up and sighed. "Ugh. Whatever. What do you want?"
"Mr. Jackal," Count said coolly, "the Master has ordered us to Los Angeles—to trail the Hunter."
Instantly, Mr. Jackal's demeanor twisted—from wild cheer to seething fury.
"Two things," he snapped. "First—you're telling me the boy made it to Los Angeles before us?"
Count gave a single nod.
Jackal's jaw clenched. "Second—wasn't The Creation supposed to kill him?"
"The Hunter defeated the homunculus," Count replied. "Master has ordered us to retrieve it, and return with information on the Hunter within three days."
Jackal grabbed his head with both hands and let out a primal scream.
"YOU'RE FULL OF SHIT, COUNT FANGULA!"
He stomped toward the vampire, spittle flying as he roared in his face.
"THE BOY SHOULD BE DEAD! DEAD! MANY TIMES OVER DEAD!"
"He is a Ysidro, a hunter of monsters," Count replied without flinching. "They are notoriously resilient. And… inhumanly stubborn."
"Don't give me that nonsense!" Jackal snarled. "The human body is limited by the unconscious mind! To survive what he's survived would mean those limits have been shattered—with intent!"
He spun away, shaking, screaming to the trees.
"HE'S AN IMPOSSIBILITY! A THING THAT SHOULDN'T BE! He defies nature! I will learn why he keeps coming back—and when I do, I'll prove he's not human! I'll vindicate every theory I've ever studied!"
Count sighed, unimpressed. "You're beginning to come down, Mr. Jackal. Find a horse and start riding. You'll need to be presentable when you arrive in Echo Creek."
Jackal, still panting, nodded jerkily. "Right. Right. Sure. Of course!"
He turned, grinning too wide. "You go ahead. I'll be there by morning. I just need to wash up at the stream."
Count began to transform, his form unraveling into a storm of wings. "And the bodies?"
Jackal smirked. "Eh. Let someone find them. Let the whole region know what's coming."
Count rolled his eyes and vanished into the sky in a swirling cloud of bats.
Alone now, Jackal looked around at the corpses littering the clearing. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"… Well. Before I leave…"
He grinned again, teeth like razors in the firelight.
"I may as well eat, first."
In the organ room of Hillhurst Mansion, the Abomination lay hogtied on the floor—still trembling, still in pain he couldn't escape.
Dr. Hillhurst, wearing heavy coveralls, thick gloves, and a bandanna tied across his mouth, was on his knees, carefully pouring a glittering liquid metal in a circle around the beast.
Teodoro sat nearby on a velvet couch, revolver in one hand, the other thumbing a cross at the end of a worn necklace kept under his shirt normally.
Nearly done, Hillhurst glanced over. "Ted, could you please leave the room?"
"If something happens, I'll need to protect you," Teodoro replied without moving.
"I'd rather risk a mangling than you getting mercury poisoning. At least stay by the door until the circle's complete."
With a sigh, Teodoro rose and stepped to the doorway—where SheHaw stood, arms crossed, brow furrowed.
"What is this?" She asked, eyeing the metallic ring warily.
"A circle to contain or exclude entropic forces," Hillhurst said cheerfully. "In simpler terms, a magical barrier of protection."
He sealed the container and reached into his pocket, pulling out a length of multicolored thread.
"Normally, you soak this in a mercury-moonstone solution and let it set, but we don't have time for that."
"Moonstones?" SheHaw blinked.
"From the moon," Hillhurst confirmed. "I ground them into powder and added them to the mercury. Now I'm adding this…"
He held up the thread "… Which is unicorn hair."
SheHaw tilted her head, visibly more confused. "… Unicorns?"
Hillhurst nodded, matter-of-fact. "Yes. Fey horses that frolic in enchanted forests. They can only be approached by untouched virgins."
She stared at him.
"… Al… are you an untouched virgin?"
Looking incredibly proud, Hillhurst smiled. "Of course! Only virgins become wizards when they reach thirty, after all!"
SheHaw and Teodoro exchanged a long, loaded glance.
"Pardon him," SheHaw muttered. "He's… eccentric."
Teodoro shrugged. "I've seen unicorns before. He knows what he's talking about with them."
SheHaw flinched slightly, leaning away. "… Seriously?"
"Yes." Teodoro insisted, before he turned back to Hillhurst, who was now laying out the unicorn hair thread in the circle.
He gestured to the strange man. "None of this makes sense to me. Moonstones and mercury? Virgins turning into wizards?"
The young man shook his head.
SheHaw was glad Teodoro wasn't as crazy as Dr. Hillhurst. Or maybe he was just as ignorant as she was.
She turned to her friend. "Al, are you sure this is gonna work?"
Dr. Hillhurst didn't look up. He had no time to waste defending his methods—he'd let the results speak for themselves.
"With utmost certainty. Now please step back... because that rope you used to bind our friend is about to reach its limit."
He leaned close, delicately lowering the unicorn hair thread into the glittering mercury ring.
Alarmed, both SheHaw and Teodoro turned. The Abomination was straining—his limbs twisting unnaturally, rope fibers stretching to the edge of breaking.
Teodoro raised his revolver. SheHaw crouched, ready to lunge and pull the "doctor" to safety.
"And I need to thread… this… needle… !" Hillhurst muttered, bringing the thread's ends together.
SNAP!
The rope split. The Abomination roared—in equal parts agony and fury—as his arms lashed outward and slammed into the floor to throw himself at Hillhurst.
SheHaw tackled the "Doctor", taking them both to the ground as the monster collided full-force with a transparent dome of light. The sound echoed like a struck bell.
The barrier held, shimmering like a soap bubble, its surface crawling with arcane symbols—some familiar, others alien.
Inside, the Abomination reeled back, stunned. He screamed and began thrashing against the dome, fists slamming against it over and over in a frenzy.
Teodoro lowered his gun, satisfied.
"How did you know it was about to escape?" he asked.
From beneath SheHaw, Dr. Hillhurst looked up, muffled. "Do you mind?"
SheHaw blinked, realizing she was still atop him. "Oh. Right. Sorry, Doc."
She stood and helped him up.
"I knew," Hillhurst said, brushing himself off, "because this thing might look human, but it doesn't move like one. It's a regenerating homunculus—an artificial revenant made from men, shaped in their image."
He gestured toward the monster. "Think Frankenstein's monster."
SheHaw eyed the beast. "I've read that book, this is not Frankenstein's monster."
"Of course not," Hillhurst agreed. "Shelley's creation was described as far more handsome."
He adjusted his gloves. "No, I've seen this one before—in a news clipping. A man tried to bring The Modern Prometheus to life."
SheHaw narrowed her eyes. "Then that man didn't read The Modern Prometheus."
"He did," Teodoro said, stepping forward. "I know. I read it too."
"You have?" SheHaw asked, surprised.
Teodoro nodded. "My mother read it to me. Books like that—in the wrong hands—are dangerous. They make people believe the impossible can be done. And when they try to prove it..."
"They cause tragedy," SheHaw finished.
"Worse," Teodoro said grimly, "they turn fiction into reality."
"And!" Dr. Hillhurst interjected, eyes gleaming. "Our so-called Prometheus made his monster real… but instead of creating a new life form that could, unchecked, replace mankind—he made a lump of flesh in the shape of man, completely incapable of function."
SheHaw paused. "Wait… so it didn't work?"
"Oh, it worked, allegedly," Hillhurst said, gesturing with one gloved hand. "But all he got was a drooling, barely animated pile of stitched parts. No cognition. No speech. No movement beyond spasms. The press mockingly called him Doctor Frankenbeans."
SheHaw let out a short laugh. "Franks and Beans."
"Correct!" Hillhurst grinned, stroking his chin. "But that leads us to this."
He gestured toward the creature, still thrashing behind the glowing dome. "This… is not a brain-dead heap. This thing functions. It moves, it fights. It thinks. Just like Shelley's horror."
His voice dropped. "And that worries me."
He turned to Teodoro. "Is there anything you know?"
Teodoro nodded slowly. "When I first faced this creature, it was more like how the newspapers described it. But then… one of the others struck it with lightning."
Hillhurst raised an eyebrow. "Lightning, hm?"
"It changed after that," Teodoro said. "It became this."
Hillhurst hummed. "Frankenbeans did claim he used electricity to animate it. Though it enraged that brilliant fellow Tesla—he hates when people treat electricity like magic."
He stepped toward the dome. "Do you suppose it's still running off that bolt?"
"It's possible," Teodoro replied.
SheHaw narrowed her eyes. "Wouldn't it need, like… a battery?"
Hillhurst looked pointedly at the two large bolts protruding from the creature's neck. "Perhaps it I the battery."
"So how do we drain him?" SheHaw asked.
Hillhurst shrugged. "That depends on how long it can run off one charge. Ted—how long ago was the strike?"
"Over a week."
SheHaw turned, stunned. "You've been running from this thing that long?"
Teodoro shook his head. "I've been hunting them. This creature is only one horror. The prey I track have many like it—vampires, werewolves, ancient things of immense power."
SheHaw glanced between him and the Abomination—then fixed on him, suddenly serious. "Ted… if there are more like this, you need to tell me what we're really up against."
Teodoro met her gaze, voice quiet but resolute. "You survived this one. But we will need many guns, and stronger people."
He looked toward the window, as if gazing far beyond Echo Creek.
"When they come here—and they will—they won't just kill a few townsfolk. They'll burn Echo Creek. Then Los Angeles. Then everything."
Dr. Hillhurst nodded grimly. "So, we mustn't take any chances. I'm going to attempt something extremely dangerous—and if it works, we'll be rid of this creature… and hopefully any others that find their way here."
SheHaw stiffened. "What are you gonna try?"
"To banish it. To another time and place. Somewhere it can never return from."
SheHaw froze. "… I beg your pardon?"
After a night of monsters and mayhem, this was somehow the most disturbing thing Hillhurst had said.
"Since when could you do that, Al?"
"Well… I haven't done it yet. But I know how to."
He strolled to the massive pipe organ the room was named for and picked up a thick book resting on its left arm. "So there's a chance it might not work."
Returning to them, he gave both SheHaw and Teodoro a curt nod. "Which is why I'm glad to have backup."
He flipped through the tome, thumbing past sepia-colored pages until—
"Ah. Here we go. Banishment in Three Easy Steps."
Facing the monster, he read aloud:
"Step one—have the thing you want to banish."
He gestured to the creature raging behind the glowing dome.
"Check. Step two—obtain an object the target loathes."
He looked at Teodoro. "Mind tossing me a silver bullet?"
Without a word, Teodoro lobbed one underhand. Hillhurst caught it neatly.
"Check! Step three—While facing the target, draw a perfect, unbroken Golden Spiral in the air with the object… while reciting: Sator Arepo Tenet Opera Rotas."
He grinned. "Actually doable!"
"A what spiral?!" SheHaw blinked. "And what was that last bit supposed to be?"
"It's a magical palindrome," Hillhurst explained. "And the spiral's just a matter of steady hands. Need I make the joke about brothels and needlework again?"
"We were both there for that," Teodoro deadpanned.
"Then I won't repeat myself," Hillhurst said curtly, snapping the book shut and stepping toward Frankenbeans' Monster.
Dr. Hillhurst stood outside the radius of the shimmering dome, silver bullet pinched between his gloved fingers, his shoulders squared and unnaturally still. The Abomination, still pacing and howling inside the barrier, froze—some instinct warning it of a new danger.
Hillhurst took a deep breath and lifted the silver bullet high. Holding it delicately between thumb and forefinger, he began to trace a spiraling line in the air.
"Sator… Arepo… Tenet… Opera… Rotas…" Hillhurst said as he drew his spiral slowly.
At first, nothing appeared to occur. SheHaw and Teodoro shared quiet, skeptical looks, before watching Hillhurst.
"… Sator… Arepo… Tenet… Opera… Rotas…" He repeated, his voice lowering but growing louder. The Abomination stopped screaming, and was now fixed on the "Doctor's" strange ritual.
Then the room grew dim. The house's electric lights didn't lower, but the air itself absorbed illumination. The pipe organ's brass fittings dulled, shadows stretched unnaturally long. Dust motes in the air ceased their drift and hovered, suspended.
"… Sator… Arepo… Tenet… Opera… Rotas…"
SheHaw tensed up, the hairs on her neck standing on end as she felt a strange energy start to fill the room. One that made her want to simultaneously grab Teodoro and run, or strike Hillhurst to make him stop.
Neither, however, her body seemed to want to do, as she saw the first flicker of gold trail behind the bullet Hillhurst carved precisely through the air.
"… Sator… Arepo… Tenet… Opera… Rotas…"
The mercury circle began to pulse—with light and sound, the symbols on the surface of the bubble twisting and folding back and forth, inside and out with each pulse. Slowly, the flickering trail became a solid golden line of light, spiraling outward, and leaving a wake that turned the spiral into a circle.
"… Sator… Arepo… Tenet… Opera… Rotas…"
Inside the dome, the Abomination screamed, as if the words physically tore at its being. Its fists slammed against the barrier—but this time, they sparked and rebounded, blue and gold fire arcing at every point of contact.
"… Sator… Arepo… Tenet… Opera… Rotas…!"
His eyes shut tightly, Dr. Hillhurst kept repeating the incantation with more and more force, the spiral glowing brighter as the very world around him dimmed. The words echoed unnaturally, layering atop themselves—folding backward and forward, looping through the room like sound bouncing between mirrors.
Over and over the words folded in on each other and opened again, like countless tesseracts, Dr. Hillhurst's voice growing louder, thunderous, roaring…
"… Sator…! Arepo…! Tenet…! Opera…! ROTAS!"
Somewhere, impossibly far and unbearably close, a golden triangle stirred in the dark—flat and perfect, suspended in a sea of not-space.
An eye snapped open across its surface—lidless, ancient, watching.
Then, as if in revulsion, a woman's voice, disembodied and sharp with recognition, gasped, before a set of horns flanked the triangle before a burst of flame erupted and consumed the triangle in an instant.
In front of the massive organ, Dr. Hillhurst's spiral burst into full form. A complete golden disk that burned at the edges like fire. Both Teodoro and SheHaw watched in awe as the ritual truly came to life before their eyes, filling the room with an alien light.
On the other side of the disc of light, the barrier warped and rippled like water. The Abomination cowered back from the impenetrable field, screaming futilely at the golden figure and the outline of the "Doctor" behind it.
Hillhurst staggered back a half-step, breathing hard, the spiral pulsing before him like a sun.
"Now," he said to no one—and everyone.
He flicked the bullet straight into the spiral's heart.
The world inverted.
Color disappeared, sound disappeared. Only the gold remained vibrant as all colors drained away; the circle began to crack and splinter, a white, blinding light forcing through the fissures.
The Abomination, Dr. Hillhurst, Teodoro, and SheHaw all screamed at once, soundless in the black and white world.
The world went white.
Two claps echoed through the Los Angeles Night. One from the home of Dr. Aloysius Hillhurst, and another much louder sound as high explosives detonated inside the blockage of the broken exploration well in downtown Echo Creek.
Color slowly bled back into existence at Hillhurst's home, as the "Doctor" lowered his arms and looked at the scorch mark where the Abomination once stood. It, the barrier, every trace of both—had completely vanished.
Gone. Truly gone.
He sighed in relief. "Thank the stars, now I don't have to mop up the mercury."
"WHAT IN THE SAM HILL WAS THAT?!" SheHaw roared, snapping Dr. Hillhurst from his brief respite.
He spun to face her, a manic grin plastered on his lips, as he presented the scorched carpet and hardwood floor.
"The ritual!" He declared. "It worked!"
"It did," Teodoro confirmed quietly. "I saw something leave—felt something leave."
"Felt something leave!" SheHaw repeated. "I felt like my soul was trying to climb out my ears!"
"Yes, yes, brilliance all around!" Hillhurst chirped, peeling off his gloves and casually tossing them into a wastebin by the organ. "The golden spiral, the palindrome resonance, the dimensional twist—we did it! Opened a portal to another world and flung that disagreeable brute through it!"
He clapped once. "Bravo, team."
"Do you even know where it went?" SheHaw shouted, eyes wide.
That shut him up.
The room fell into a sharp, uncomfortable silence.
Hillhurst blinked. Shrugged.
"Not the foggiest," he admitted cheerfully. "It could be in the past, the future, another dimension entirely. A place with no time or shape at all. It could be in the pantry of a particularly unpleasant god for all I know."
He gestured at the scorched floor.
"But I can say with certainty—it's not here."
SheHaw buried her face in both hands and groaned. "Sheeeeeeeeee-it…"
In a burst of pink sparkles, the vigilante in pink vanished.
Teodoro blinked—SheHaw was gone. In her place stood the same woman he'd met just this morning, Jane.
Same black hair with straw-colored tips, same hazel eyes, but now with the weary sigh of a woman past her limit.
"I am far too tired for this," Jane muttered, dragging her hands down her face. "Been runnin' around as SheHaw all day because of this mess. And of course this is how it ends!"
Dr. Hillhurst bowed kindly to Jane. "Mi casa, es su casa," he offered. "Pick any guest room you like. You've earned a good night's sleep in comfort, Jane."
Jane gave him a sidelong glance, but couldn't help the tired smile tugging at her lips. "I'm expectin' a proper breakfast after all this, Doc."
Hillhurst tapped his chest with mock solemnity. "Nothing but the finest, my dear friend. I shall rouse the stove myself before the dawn."
With that, Jane marched out of the Organ Room and climbed the stairs without another word.
Teodoro watched her go, then turned slowly back to Dr. Hillhurst.
"… I should have figured it out," he admitted. "I met Miss Jane this morning and completely forgot about her."
Hillhurst laughed. "She gives me grief for my mystic ramblings, yet she is the one with real magic. The irony is exquisite."
He clapped Teodoro on the shoulder. "But tonight? We've all earned some rest."
Teodoro's gaze drifted to the scorch mark on the floor.
His voice dropped. "Doctor… can you do that again?"
Hillhurst paused, suddenly very aware of the question's weight. "… Now that I know it works? Yes. Yes, I believe I can."
Teodoro's jaw tensed. "And… is that exactly how it's supposed to work?"
Hillhurst hesitated, then nodded with theatrical assurance. "Precisely as I was taught."
Teodoro shook his head, voice grim. "Then it's useless."
Hillhurst reeled back slightly. "Useless?! It worked!"
"Sure," Teodoro said. "But if it takes all that just to banish one monster… what good is it against an army?"
The question hit its mark. Hillhurst fell quiet, the triumph draining from his expression.
"Yes," he finally said, voice lower. "That is the ritual… as it was passed to me. But don't despair, Ted."
He rubbed the back of his neck, ruffling his unruly hair. "There may be a way to scale it. Amplify it. I just… need to consult my old master."
Teodoro's eyes narrowed. "Who is your master?"
Hillhurst went still. Far too still.
"… Someone I'd rather not invoke again," he said quietly. "Even speaking of him in passing… is enough to invite bad dreams."
Teodoro didn't like the sound of that. At all.
Hillhurst forced a crooked smile, trying to lighten the mood and failing. "Don't worry about the banishment spell. I've studied it for a long time. I'm sure I can modify it… maybe even make it strong enough to wipe out an entire city if I had to."
He glanced toward the window, then back at Teodoro. "I'd certainly like to send Lady Bonner to a place with no time or shape at all."
Beneath the blazing glare of the Carbon Arc lamps, more men than ever were hard at work under Emily Blakesfield-Bonner's command. The air stank of scorched oil and acrid steam as laborers scrambled to clear the wreckage left by the previous night's battle. The worst of it centered on the burning gusher SheHaw had triggered—using the Abomination as a blunt instrument.
But work had stopped entirely at the newly blasted drill head several blocks away—the one that had vexed Emily all day.
There, the overnight crew, led by Mr. Jacobs, stood frozen. Silent. Staring.
The dynamite hadn't cleared away stubbornly hard rock.
It had uncovered something else.
A well—stone-bricked, wide-mouthed, and ancient. The explosion had unearthed the top of what appeared to be some long-buried ruin. Half-buried murals ringed the clearing, their carvings worn but still visible.
The highest showed the face of a bearded figure, his expression serene and terrible, a gemstone set into the middle of his tall forehead. His outstretched arms ended in six fingers each, and from his parted lips flowed a sculpted stream of liquid toward something still buried below the earth.
The men barely noticed the mural.
Their eyes were fixed on the well.
It was overgrown with a strange crystalline crust—iridescent with hues that shifted unnervingly between orange-gold and deep violet, like a perpetual sunrise locked in battle with twilight. The crystal seemed to breathe faintly, pulsing like a heart.
But at its center… something was trapped.
Suspended in the crystal, curled in the fetal position, was a child.
No older than five or six. Skin bluish-white, tinged faintly with lavender veins. Clothed in bright, oversized garments that might've once brought laughter—a harlequin's motley dyed in carnival colors now dulled by time.
A jester.
Far beyond Echo Creek—beyond Earth, beyond any known constellation, beyond time itself—the Abomination snapped awake.
It screamed without sound, convulsing as it shot upright. The pain hadn't vanished. If anything, it had deepened—an echoing burn stitched into its flesh and soul by the unnatural force that had hurled it across the very framework of reality.
Endless rows of tall, ripening corn swayed gently in the breeze—springing from loamy, obsidian soil so rich it looked like oil. Their golden tassels shimmered under a copper twilight sky, dancing like threadbare flags.
The creature rose slowly, towering above the stalks. It turned and turned, searching for a break in the rows… for anything familiar.
And then it saw it.
In the distance, a shimmering blue lake. At its center, an island—bristling with spires and buildings clustered together like a fairytale illustration torn from a corrupted storybook. The architecture evoked medieval France and Germany—quaint, archaic, but impossibly untouched by time.
Yet even this alien quaintness paled beside what stood at the island's heart.
Eight impossibly tall towers, clustered like the stems of a petrified bouquet, rose into the sky from a sweeping stone pinnacle. Their uppermost domes resembled mushroom caps, blooming tulips, and gilded onion bulbs—ornate and iridescent.
They should not exist. Their scale dwarfed the mountains they were built upon and the town they loomed over, clawing up into clouds.
A greater mind would be paralyzed with awe. A scholar would weep at the sheer beauty of architecture spread out before them.
But Frankenbeans' Monster was neither.
He saw pain.
It saw a world that mocked him by simply existing.
And he knew, with the burning certainty of instinct, that it would destroy those towers… and the fragile world beneath them… just to make the pain stop.
With all his might, the Abomination roared.
Oh. These are some dangerous associations... and ominous destinations...
= - = 9-7 = - =
|Master, Master|
|Master, Master|
Southeast of Echo Creek, deep in the Santa Ana Mountains, the great swarm of bats streaked across the night sky. They flew low beneath the mountain peaks, weaving through the trees that blanketed the slopes and valleys.
The swarm descended into a clearing where a single large tent stood, silent among the pines. The bats converged above it, condensing into a single churning mass. They twisted, merged, writhing into a vaguely human shape—until, at last, the form solidified.
A pale-faced, wild-haired man in a black suit now stood in their place. A red and gold vest gleamed beneath his open jacket, and a voluminous black bowtie sat at his throat. Behind him, a high-collared cape flared in the wind as he strode toward the tent's entrance.
Inside, the tent resembled the study of a seasoned explorer. A map of northern Mexico and southern California was spread across a round table at its center. Crates and shelves filled with books, scrolls, and instruments lined the walls. At the far end, a desk and chair faced away from the entrance.
Seated at the desk, cloaked in dark robes and hooded against the lantern light, was the man known only as Master. He set down his pen beside a half-written letter without turning around.
"You're here sooner than I expected, Count," he said. "I take it that something has occurred."
"Master," the Count replied, his voice low, uncertain. "I have found the boy. He reached Los Angeles ahead of us."
The Master grew still. "And you have not brought him to me because…?"
"I couldn't approach," the Count said, uneasily. "Those accursed carbon arc lamps—they made it impossible. So... I sent the homunculus after him."
A long silence.
"And…?" the Master asked.
The Count lowered his eyes. "The homunculus was defeated."
The Master bowed his head—not in anger, but in thought.
The Count winced, bracing for rebuke.
But the hooded man only chuckled, sounding almost relieved. "Hah... I can only admire that kind of determination. After everything, he still hunts us."
The Count exhaled, a breath he held only for dramatic effect. "I'm not surprised. After what we did to his home—and everyone he cared about…"
"Yes," the Master agreed quietly. "But how many before him have said the same? When faced with true hopelessness… absolute despair… even the strongest men lose their fire."
He turned his hood slightly, as though looking out into the dark. "We destroyed his home. His family. Left him with nothing but what he could carry. Left him to die."
His voice dropped, almost reverent.
"And yet… he endures."
The Master stood from his desk.
"Not only that… he carries on with hatred in his heart—enough to drive him to face us still, and defeat us."
He turned, his face hidden entirely in the black of his hood. "We have found him, Count. Our Dantès. Our Ahab—our relentless pursuer who will defy death and despair itself in the name of vengeance."
He extended a hand. "Go. Take Mr. Jackal with you and investigate. Return to me with the Hunter's disposition. Retrieve the homunculus if you are able to, I will decide what action to take next."
Count dropped to one knee, bowing his head low. "As you command, Master. If the Hunter attacks… what should I do?"
"Do not fight him without advantage. Weakened and alone he was a menace. If he has food, rest, and allies, he will be too dangerous to confront directly."
Count hesitated, skeptical—but dared not challenge the order. "As you wish. I shall collect Mr. Jackal immediately and make for the city."
"Report back within three days," the Master said. "If I hear nothing, I will assume you are lost."
"I understand. Fear not. I will complete my mission without fail."
With that, the Count's form dissolved—losing its shape, breaking into a cloud of shrieking bats that burst from the tent and vanished into the sky.
The Master watched until the last winged shadow disappeared.
Then he turned, sat, and picked up his fountain pen. He brought the nib to paper… but paused.
Eyes closed, he sighed.
"… It is a shame…"
Cutting across the night sky, winds howling under their wings, the bats that made up Count soared over the Southern California wilderness. The swarm drifted like a shadow across the moonlit land—until they spotted a lone camp, firelight flickering below.
With a shriek, they descended—merging mid-air, condensing into the tall, suited form of Count just as he touched ground.
The fire crackled, casting long shadows over a scene of carnage.
Nearly a dozen bodies lay strewn around the campsite—men and women both. Some had been shot. Some were stabbed. One man was strangled so violently blood streamed from nose, mouth, and ears. Several faces were no longer recognizable.
And in front of the blaze stood a single man.
His shirt—once white—was so soaked with blood it looked crimson at first glance. He turned as Count landed, revealing a youthful, sharp-featured face, framed by a messy shock of white hair matted with gore.
He grinned, wide and feral.
"Fangy!" He sang out. "How's my favorite Creature of the Night?"
Count's voice dropped to frost. "Address me as Count, Jackal. What are you doing out here?"
"Curing my boredom, isn't it obvious?" Jackal said cheerfully, kicking a corpse's head like a football. "They weren't much, but they put up just enough fight to make it fun."
He spread his blood-slicked arms wide. "And look! A feast, just for you! Aren't I considerate?"
Count sneered. "I despise dead meat. No matter how fresh the kill."
"Oh, don't knock it until you try it," Jackal chuckled, folding his hands behind his head.
"Blood must flow from a living heart," Count replied coldly. "I'll savor the last drops from a dying man, yes—but I will not suck blood from corpses like a vulture."
Jackal snorted. "But sucking it out like a leech is beautiful and elegant, I gather?"
He threw his hands up and sighed. "Ugh. Whatever. What do you want?"
"Mr. Jackal," Count said coolly, "the Master has ordered us to Los Angeles—to trail the Hunter."
Instantly, Mr. Jackal's demeanor twisted—from wild cheer to seething fury.
"Two things," he snapped. "First—you're telling me the boy made it to Los Angeles before us?"
Count gave a single nod.
Jackal's jaw clenched. "Second—wasn't The Creation supposed to kill him?"
"The Hunter defeated the homunculus," Count replied. "Master has ordered us to retrieve it, and return with information on the Hunter within three days."
Jackal grabbed his head with both hands and let out a primal scream.
"YOU'RE FULL OF SHIT, COUNT FANGULA!"
He stomped toward the vampire, spittle flying as he roared in his face.
"THE BOY SHOULD BE DEAD! DEAD! MANY TIMES OVER DEAD!"
"He is a Ysidro, a hunter of monsters," Count replied without flinching. "They are notoriously resilient. And… inhumanly stubborn."
"Don't give me that nonsense!" Jackal snarled. "The human body is limited by the unconscious mind! To survive what he's survived would mean those limits have been shattered—with intent!"
He spun away, shaking, screaming to the trees.
"HE'S AN IMPOSSIBILITY! A THING THAT SHOULDN'T BE! He defies nature! I will learn why he keeps coming back—and when I do, I'll prove he's not human! I'll vindicate every theory I've ever studied!"
Count sighed, unimpressed. "You're beginning to come down, Mr. Jackal. Find a horse and start riding. You'll need to be presentable when you arrive in Echo Creek."
Jackal, still panting, nodded jerkily. "Right. Right. Sure. Of course!"
He turned, grinning too wide. "You go ahead. I'll be there by morning. I just need to wash up at the stream."
Count began to transform, his form unraveling into a storm of wings. "And the bodies?"
Jackal smirked. "Eh. Let someone find them. Let the whole region know what's coming."
Count rolled his eyes and vanished into the sky in a swirling cloud of bats.
Alone now, Jackal looked around at the corpses littering the clearing. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"… Well. Before I leave…"
He grinned again, teeth like razors in the firelight.
"I may as well eat, first."
@@@@@
In the organ room of Hillhurst Mansion, the Abomination lay hogtied on the floor—still trembling, still in pain he couldn't escape.
Dr. Hillhurst, wearing heavy coveralls, thick gloves, and a bandanna tied across his mouth, was on his knees, carefully pouring a glittering liquid metal in a circle around the beast.
Teodoro sat nearby on a velvet couch, revolver in one hand, the other thumbing a cross at the end of a worn necklace kept under his shirt normally.
Nearly done, Hillhurst glanced over. "Ted, could you please leave the room?"
"If something happens, I'll need to protect you," Teodoro replied without moving.
"I'd rather risk a mangling than you getting mercury poisoning. At least stay by the door until the circle's complete."
With a sigh, Teodoro rose and stepped to the doorway—where SheHaw stood, arms crossed, brow furrowed.
"What is this?" She asked, eyeing the metallic ring warily.
"A circle to contain or exclude entropic forces," Hillhurst said cheerfully. "In simpler terms, a magical barrier of protection."
He sealed the container and reached into his pocket, pulling out a length of multicolored thread.
"Normally, you soak this in a mercury-moonstone solution and let it set, but we don't have time for that."
"Moonstones?" SheHaw blinked.
"From the moon," Hillhurst confirmed. "I ground them into powder and added them to the mercury. Now I'm adding this…"
He held up the thread "… Which is unicorn hair."
SheHaw tilted her head, visibly more confused. "… Unicorns?"
Hillhurst nodded, matter-of-fact. "Yes. Fey horses that frolic in enchanted forests. They can only be approached by untouched virgins."
She stared at him.
"… Al… are you an untouched virgin?"
Looking incredibly proud, Hillhurst smiled. "Of course! Only virgins become wizards when they reach thirty, after all!"
SheHaw and Teodoro exchanged a long, loaded glance.
"Pardon him," SheHaw muttered. "He's… eccentric."
Teodoro shrugged. "I've seen unicorns before. He knows what he's talking about with them."
SheHaw flinched slightly, leaning away. "… Seriously?"
"Yes." Teodoro insisted, before he turned back to Hillhurst, who was now laying out the unicorn hair thread in the circle.
He gestured to the strange man. "None of this makes sense to me. Moonstones and mercury? Virgins turning into wizards?"
The young man shook his head.
SheHaw was glad Teodoro wasn't as crazy as Dr. Hillhurst. Or maybe he was just as ignorant as she was.
She turned to her friend. "Al, are you sure this is gonna work?"
Dr. Hillhurst didn't look up. He had no time to waste defending his methods—he'd let the results speak for themselves.
"With utmost certainty. Now please step back... because that rope you used to bind our friend is about to reach its limit."
He leaned close, delicately lowering the unicorn hair thread into the glittering mercury ring.
Alarmed, both SheHaw and Teodoro turned. The Abomination was straining—his limbs twisting unnaturally, rope fibers stretching to the edge of breaking.
Teodoro raised his revolver. SheHaw crouched, ready to lunge and pull the "doctor" to safety.
"And I need to thread… this… needle… !" Hillhurst muttered, bringing the thread's ends together.
SNAP!
The rope split. The Abomination roared—in equal parts agony and fury—as his arms lashed outward and slammed into the floor to throw himself at Hillhurst.
SheHaw tackled the "Doctor", taking them both to the ground as the monster collided full-force with a transparent dome of light. The sound echoed like a struck bell.
The barrier held, shimmering like a soap bubble, its surface crawling with arcane symbols—some familiar, others alien.
Inside, the Abomination reeled back, stunned. He screamed and began thrashing against the dome, fists slamming against it over and over in a frenzy.
Teodoro lowered his gun, satisfied.
"How did you know it was about to escape?" he asked.
From beneath SheHaw, Dr. Hillhurst looked up, muffled. "Do you mind?"
SheHaw blinked, realizing she was still atop him. "Oh. Right. Sorry, Doc."
She stood and helped him up.
"I knew," Hillhurst said, brushing himself off, "because this thing might look human, but it doesn't move like one. It's a regenerating homunculus—an artificial revenant made from men, shaped in their image."
He gestured toward the monster. "Think Frankenstein's monster."
SheHaw eyed the beast. "I've read that book, this is not Frankenstein's monster."
"Of course not," Hillhurst agreed. "Shelley's creation was described as far more handsome."
He adjusted his gloves. "No, I've seen this one before—in a news clipping. A man tried to bring The Modern Prometheus to life."
SheHaw narrowed her eyes. "Then that man didn't read The Modern Prometheus."
"He did," Teodoro said, stepping forward. "I know. I read it too."
"You have?" SheHaw asked, surprised.
Teodoro nodded. "My mother read it to me. Books like that—in the wrong hands—are dangerous. They make people believe the impossible can be done. And when they try to prove it..."
"They cause tragedy," SheHaw finished.
"Worse," Teodoro said grimly, "they turn fiction into reality."
"And!" Dr. Hillhurst interjected, eyes gleaming. "Our so-called Prometheus made his monster real… but instead of creating a new life form that could, unchecked, replace mankind—he made a lump of flesh in the shape of man, completely incapable of function."
SheHaw paused. "Wait… so it didn't work?"
"Oh, it worked, allegedly," Hillhurst said, gesturing with one gloved hand. "But all he got was a drooling, barely animated pile of stitched parts. No cognition. No speech. No movement beyond spasms. The press mockingly called him Doctor Frankenbeans."
SheHaw let out a short laugh. "Franks and Beans."
"Correct!" Hillhurst grinned, stroking his chin. "But that leads us to this."
He gestured toward the creature, still thrashing behind the glowing dome. "This… is not a brain-dead heap. This thing functions. It moves, it fights. It thinks. Just like Shelley's horror."
His voice dropped. "And that worries me."
He turned to Teodoro. "Is there anything you know?"
Teodoro nodded slowly. "When I first faced this creature, it was more like how the newspapers described it. But then… one of the others struck it with lightning."
Hillhurst raised an eyebrow. "Lightning, hm?"
"It changed after that," Teodoro said. "It became this."
Hillhurst hummed. "Frankenbeans did claim he used electricity to animate it. Though it enraged that brilliant fellow Tesla—he hates when people treat electricity like magic."
He stepped toward the dome. "Do you suppose it's still running off that bolt?"
"It's possible," Teodoro replied.
SheHaw narrowed her eyes. "Wouldn't it need, like… a battery?"
Hillhurst looked pointedly at the two large bolts protruding from the creature's neck. "Perhaps it I the battery."
"So how do we drain him?" SheHaw asked.
Hillhurst shrugged. "That depends on how long it can run off one charge. Ted—how long ago was the strike?"
"Over a week."
SheHaw turned, stunned. "You've been running from this thing that long?"
Teodoro shook his head. "I've been hunting them. This creature is only one horror. The prey I track have many like it—vampires, werewolves, ancient things of immense power."
SheHaw glanced between him and the Abomination—then fixed on him, suddenly serious. "Ted… if there are more like this, you need to tell me what we're really up against."
Teodoro met her gaze, voice quiet but resolute. "You survived this one. But we will need many guns, and stronger people."
He looked toward the window, as if gazing far beyond Echo Creek.
"When they come here—and they will—they won't just kill a few townsfolk. They'll burn Echo Creek. Then Los Angeles. Then everything."
Dr. Hillhurst nodded grimly. "So, we mustn't take any chances. I'm going to attempt something extremely dangerous—and if it works, we'll be rid of this creature… and hopefully any others that find their way here."
SheHaw stiffened. "What are you gonna try?"
"To banish it. To another time and place. Somewhere it can never return from."
SheHaw froze. "… I beg your pardon?"
After a night of monsters and mayhem, this was somehow the most disturbing thing Hillhurst had said.
"Since when could you do that, Al?"
"Well… I haven't done it yet. But I know how to."
He strolled to the massive pipe organ the room was named for and picked up a thick book resting on its left arm. "So there's a chance it might not work."
Returning to them, he gave both SheHaw and Teodoro a curt nod. "Which is why I'm glad to have backup."
He flipped through the tome, thumbing past sepia-colored pages until—
"Ah. Here we go. Banishment in Three Easy Steps."
Facing the monster, he read aloud:
"Step one—have the thing you want to banish."
He gestured to the creature raging behind the glowing dome.
"Check. Step two—obtain an object the target loathes."
He looked at Teodoro. "Mind tossing me a silver bullet?"
Without a word, Teodoro lobbed one underhand. Hillhurst caught it neatly.
"Check! Step three—While facing the target, draw a perfect, unbroken Golden Spiral in the air with the object… while reciting: Sator Arepo Tenet Opera Rotas."
He grinned. "Actually doable!"
"A what spiral?!" SheHaw blinked. "And what was that last bit supposed to be?"
"It's a magical palindrome," Hillhurst explained. "And the spiral's just a matter of steady hands. Need I make the joke about brothels and needlework again?"
"We were both there for that," Teodoro deadpanned.
"Then I won't repeat myself," Hillhurst said curtly, snapping the book shut and stepping toward Frankenbeans' Monster.
Dr. Hillhurst stood outside the radius of the shimmering dome, silver bullet pinched between his gloved fingers, his shoulders squared and unnaturally still. The Abomination, still pacing and howling inside the barrier, froze—some instinct warning it of a new danger.
Hillhurst took a deep breath and lifted the silver bullet high. Holding it delicately between thumb and forefinger, he began to trace a spiraling line in the air.
"Sator… Arepo… Tenet… Opera… Rotas…" Hillhurst said as he drew his spiral slowly.
At first, nothing appeared to occur. SheHaw and Teodoro shared quiet, skeptical looks, before watching Hillhurst.
"… Sator… Arepo… Tenet… Opera… Rotas…" He repeated, his voice lowering but growing louder. The Abomination stopped screaming, and was now fixed on the "Doctor's" strange ritual.
Then the room grew dim. The house's electric lights didn't lower, but the air itself absorbed illumination. The pipe organ's brass fittings dulled, shadows stretched unnaturally long. Dust motes in the air ceased their drift and hovered, suspended.
"… Sator… Arepo… Tenet… Opera… Rotas…"
SheHaw tensed up, the hairs on her neck standing on end as she felt a strange energy start to fill the room. One that made her want to simultaneously grab Teodoro and run, or strike Hillhurst to make him stop.
Neither, however, her body seemed to want to do, as she saw the first flicker of gold trail behind the bullet Hillhurst carved precisely through the air.
"… Sator… Arepo… Tenet… Opera… Rotas…"
The mercury circle began to pulse—with light and sound, the symbols on the surface of the bubble twisting and folding back and forth, inside and out with each pulse. Slowly, the flickering trail became a solid golden line of light, spiraling outward, and leaving a wake that turned the spiral into a circle.
"… Sator… Arepo… Tenet… Opera… Rotas…"
Inside the dome, the Abomination screamed, as if the words physically tore at its being. Its fists slammed against the barrier—but this time, they sparked and rebounded, blue and gold fire arcing at every point of contact.
"… Sator… Arepo… Tenet… Opera… Rotas…!"
His eyes shut tightly, Dr. Hillhurst kept repeating the incantation with more and more force, the spiral glowing brighter as the very world around him dimmed. The words echoed unnaturally, layering atop themselves—folding backward and forward, looping through the room like sound bouncing between mirrors.
Over and over the words folded in on each other and opened again, like countless tesseracts, Dr. Hillhurst's voice growing louder, thunderous, roaring…
"… Sator…! Arepo…! Tenet…! Opera…! ROTAS!"
Somewhere, impossibly far and unbearably close, a golden triangle stirred in the dark—flat and perfect, suspended in a sea of not-space.
An eye snapped open across its surface—lidless, ancient, watching.
Then, as if in revulsion, a woman's voice, disembodied and sharp with recognition, gasped, before a set of horns flanked the triangle before a burst of flame erupted and consumed the triangle in an instant.
In front of the massive organ, Dr. Hillhurst's spiral burst into full form. A complete golden disk that burned at the edges like fire. Both Teodoro and SheHaw watched in awe as the ritual truly came to life before their eyes, filling the room with an alien light.
On the other side of the disc of light, the barrier warped and rippled like water. The Abomination cowered back from the impenetrable field, screaming futilely at the golden figure and the outline of the "Doctor" behind it.
Hillhurst staggered back a half-step, breathing hard, the spiral pulsing before him like a sun.
"Now," he said to no one—and everyone.
He flicked the bullet straight into the spiral's heart.
The world inverted.
Color disappeared, sound disappeared. Only the gold remained vibrant as all colors drained away; the circle began to crack and splinter, a white, blinding light forcing through the fissures.
The Abomination, Dr. Hillhurst, Teodoro, and SheHaw all screamed at once, soundless in the black and white world.
The world went white.
Two claps echoed through the Los Angeles Night. One from the home of Dr. Aloysius Hillhurst, and another much louder sound as high explosives detonated inside the blockage of the broken exploration well in downtown Echo Creek.
Color slowly bled back into existence at Hillhurst's home, as the "Doctor" lowered his arms and looked at the scorch mark where the Abomination once stood. It, the barrier, every trace of both—had completely vanished.
Gone. Truly gone.
He sighed in relief. "Thank the stars, now I don't have to mop up the mercury."
"WHAT IN THE SAM HILL WAS THAT?!" SheHaw roared, snapping Dr. Hillhurst from his brief respite.
He spun to face her, a manic grin plastered on his lips, as he presented the scorched carpet and hardwood floor.
"The ritual!" He declared. "It worked!"
"It did," Teodoro confirmed quietly. "I saw something leave—felt something leave."
"Felt something leave!" SheHaw repeated. "I felt like my soul was trying to climb out my ears!"
"Yes, yes, brilliance all around!" Hillhurst chirped, peeling off his gloves and casually tossing them into a wastebin by the organ. "The golden spiral, the palindrome resonance, the dimensional twist—we did it! Opened a portal to another world and flung that disagreeable brute through it!"
He clapped once. "Bravo, team."
"Do you even know where it went?" SheHaw shouted, eyes wide.
That shut him up.
The room fell into a sharp, uncomfortable silence.
Hillhurst blinked. Shrugged.
"Not the foggiest," he admitted cheerfully. "It could be in the past, the future, another dimension entirely. A place with no time or shape at all. It could be in the pantry of a particularly unpleasant god for all I know."
He gestured at the scorched floor.
"But I can say with certainty—it's not here."
SheHaw buried her face in both hands and groaned. "Sheeeeeeeeee-it…"
In a burst of pink sparkles, the vigilante in pink vanished.
Teodoro blinked—SheHaw was gone. In her place stood the same woman he'd met just this morning, Jane.
Same black hair with straw-colored tips, same hazel eyes, but now with the weary sigh of a woman past her limit.
"I am far too tired for this," Jane muttered, dragging her hands down her face. "Been runnin' around as SheHaw all day because of this mess. And of course this is how it ends!"
Dr. Hillhurst bowed kindly to Jane. "Mi casa, es su casa," he offered. "Pick any guest room you like. You've earned a good night's sleep in comfort, Jane."
Jane gave him a sidelong glance, but couldn't help the tired smile tugging at her lips. "I'm expectin' a proper breakfast after all this, Doc."
Hillhurst tapped his chest with mock solemnity. "Nothing but the finest, my dear friend. I shall rouse the stove myself before the dawn."
With that, Jane marched out of the Organ Room and climbed the stairs without another word.
Teodoro watched her go, then turned slowly back to Dr. Hillhurst.
"… I should have figured it out," he admitted. "I met Miss Jane this morning and completely forgot about her."
Hillhurst laughed. "She gives me grief for my mystic ramblings, yet she is the one with real magic. The irony is exquisite."
He clapped Teodoro on the shoulder. "But tonight? We've all earned some rest."
Teodoro's gaze drifted to the scorch mark on the floor.
His voice dropped. "Doctor… can you do that again?"
Hillhurst paused, suddenly very aware of the question's weight. "… Now that I know it works? Yes. Yes, I believe I can."
Teodoro's jaw tensed. "And… is that exactly how it's supposed to work?"
Hillhurst hesitated, then nodded with theatrical assurance. "Precisely as I was taught."
Teodoro shook his head, voice grim. "Then it's useless."
Hillhurst reeled back slightly. "Useless?! It worked!"
"Sure," Teodoro said. "But if it takes all that just to banish one monster… what good is it against an army?"
The question hit its mark. Hillhurst fell quiet, the triumph draining from his expression.
"Yes," he finally said, voice lower. "That is the ritual… as it was passed to me. But don't despair, Ted."
He rubbed the back of his neck, ruffling his unruly hair. "There may be a way to scale it. Amplify it. I just… need to consult my old master."
Teodoro's eyes narrowed. "Who is your master?"
Hillhurst went still. Far too still.
"… Someone I'd rather not invoke again," he said quietly. "Even speaking of him in passing… is enough to invite bad dreams."
Teodoro didn't like the sound of that. At all.
Hillhurst forced a crooked smile, trying to lighten the mood and failing. "Don't worry about the banishment spell. I've studied it for a long time. I'm sure I can modify it… maybe even make it strong enough to wipe out an entire city if I had to."
He glanced toward the window, then back at Teodoro. "I'd certainly like to send Lady Bonner to a place with no time or shape at all."
@@@@@
Beneath the blazing glare of the Carbon Arc lamps, more men than ever were hard at work under Emily Blakesfield-Bonner's command. The air stank of scorched oil and acrid steam as laborers scrambled to clear the wreckage left by the previous night's battle. The worst of it centered on the burning gusher SheHaw had triggered—using the Abomination as a blunt instrument.
But work had stopped entirely at the newly blasted drill head several blocks away—the one that had vexed Emily all day.
There, the overnight crew, led by Mr. Jacobs, stood frozen. Silent. Staring.
The dynamite hadn't cleared away stubbornly hard rock.
It had uncovered something else.
A well—stone-bricked, wide-mouthed, and ancient. The explosion had unearthed the top of what appeared to be some long-buried ruin. Half-buried murals ringed the clearing, their carvings worn but still visible.
The highest showed the face of a bearded figure, his expression serene and terrible, a gemstone set into the middle of his tall forehead. His outstretched arms ended in six fingers each, and from his parted lips flowed a sculpted stream of liquid toward something still buried below the earth.
The men barely noticed the mural.
Their eyes were fixed on the well.
It was overgrown with a strange crystalline crust—iridescent with hues that shifted unnervingly between orange-gold and deep violet, like a perpetual sunrise locked in battle with twilight. The crystal seemed to breathe faintly, pulsing like a heart.
But at its center… something was trapped.
Suspended in the crystal, curled in the fetal position, was a child.
No older than five or six. Skin bluish-white, tinged faintly with lavender veins. Clothed in bright, oversized garments that might've once brought laughter—a harlequin's motley dyed in carnival colors now dulled by time.
A jester.
Far beyond Echo Creek—beyond Earth, beyond any known constellation, beyond time itself—the Abomination snapped awake.
It screamed without sound, convulsing as it shot upright. The pain hadn't vanished. If anything, it had deepened—an echoing burn stitched into its flesh and soul by the unnatural force that had hurled it across the very framework of reality.
Endless rows of tall, ripening corn swayed gently in the breeze—springing from loamy, obsidian soil so rich it looked like oil. Their golden tassels shimmered under a copper twilight sky, dancing like threadbare flags.
The creature rose slowly, towering above the stalks. It turned and turned, searching for a break in the rows… for anything familiar.
And then it saw it.
In the distance, a shimmering blue lake. At its center, an island—bristling with spires and buildings clustered together like a fairytale illustration torn from a corrupted storybook. The architecture evoked medieval France and Germany—quaint, archaic, but impossibly untouched by time.
Yet even this alien quaintness paled beside what stood at the island's heart.
Eight impossibly tall towers, clustered like the stems of a petrified bouquet, rose into the sky from a sweeping stone pinnacle. Their uppermost domes resembled mushroom caps, blooming tulips, and gilded onion bulbs—ornate and iridescent.
They should not exist. Their scale dwarfed the mountains they were built upon and the town they loomed over, clawing up into clouds.
A greater mind would be paralyzed with awe. A scholar would weep at the sheer beauty of architecture spread out before them.
But Frankenbeans' Monster was neither.
He saw pain.
It saw a world that mocked him by simply existing.
And he knew, with the burning certainty of instinct, that it would destroy those towers… and the fragile world beneath them… just to make the pain stop.
With all his might, the Abomination roared.
= - = 9-7 = - =
Oh. These are some dangerous associations... and ominous destinations...